


The Muse

by runawaygypsy



Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Dreams, F/M, Fluff, actor!tom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 10:48:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3246866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runawaygypsy/pseuds/runawaygypsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecelia comes face to face with the man who inspires her poetry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Muse

I saw him from across the room, the man I'd admired so much and from afar, mingling with a small group of people, obviously entertaining them with some story, his face animated, hands gesturing in the air wildly. He was wearing the requisite tuxedo, his blond curls cut short and slicked back, he had the beginnings of a well-manicured beard. He glanced in my direction and smiled, his blue eyes flashing at me, a spark for a second as he caught my eye, then turned back to his companions.

Who was I kidding? I began to doubt that he'd even looked in my direction, much less smiled at me. I was nowhere near as glamorous as most of the people at the event, and nowhere near as well known. I was dressed in a flirty pinup style cocktail dress of midnight blue and had worn silver peeptoe pumps, which raised me a good the inches from my usual five foot self. I had let my hair fall free, opting to curl it just a little too frame my face. On my nose, perched a pair of wire rimmed glasses. Though I felt fancy, I didn't feel like someone who would garner that sort of attention, especially from someone like that.

The party I was attending was meant as a celebration of sorts for my friend Rachel, who had managed to win a coveted role for a production company writing a script for a movie they had in the works. She had struggled to get here and I was proud of her.

Rachel approached me as I stood, the consummate wall flower, drink in hand, tapping my toes and smiling cordially to anyone who spoke with me. "Celia," she exclaimed as she grabbed my hand. "Come with me, there's someone I want you to meet!" She pulled me through the crowded room.

I knew who she wanted to introduce me to. The man I had watched, whose very presence inspired me to write. When I watched him or listened to his voice, my mind went immediately into overdrive and I wrote volumes as his voice in my head dictated. Rachel knew of this, and it was because of this that I was now being dragged towards the man I could consider my muse. 

He was unaware of our arrival to his little group until Rachel tapped his elbow. "Tom," she said, "I've got someone for you to meet." I was pushed forward, a slight bit unwillingly. "This is my best friend, Cecelia."

For a moment, Tom remained silent. "I'm Tom. Pleased to meet you," he said, extending a hand towards me. "Are you a writer like our dear,dear Rachel?"

I took his hand and nodded. "Yes, but not nearly as successful at it as she is." Truth be told, I hadn't had anything noticed, not that I hadn't tried, but my endeavors thus far had been limited to poetic musings and fan fiction.

"What do you write? " he asked. 

I glanced over my shoulder, realizing that Rachel had already moved on, leaving me there at his mercy. There was no way I could tell him the entire truth. Pursing my lips, I answered, "Poetry, mostly, with the occasional freelance article for an art journal." Okay, I stretched the truth a little. I had submitted for the art journal, but had never been published, but he didn't know that.

"Poetry," he smiled, "Come live with me and be my love and we will all the pleasures prove..." I realized at that moment, I had not let go of his hand. Dear god, he was reciting poetry. To me. In the middle of a crowded room. I must have gotten a strange look on my face, or perhaps it was the way in which my grip slowly increased, but he stopped mid-prose and asked, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," I managed to squeak out. I tried to take a step to even my balance and, in my heels, failed miserably. Instead of righting myself, I ended up reaching out for a wall, something, anything to keep me from falling. My wall ended up being Tom's chest as I crashed into him. "I'm so sorry," I said, my voice muffled by his tuxedo.

He wrapped his arms around me and I heard him say, "It's alright." Truly the most forgiving man I'd ever met.

I looked up at him to see him grinning down at me. "I'm sorry," I repeated. "I'm just not used to anyone reciting poetry. In public." Hell, I wasn't used to anyone reciting poetry to me at all, much less a love poem. I attempted to pull away, aware that all eyes were on me, on the two of us and he let me, but only just, choosing to keep his arm draped around my waist.

He leaned close to my ear and whispered, "Just in case you fall again," then he stood back up and winked at me. Lord help me, I already had fallen. Hard and deep, I had fallen and he had no idea. 

I stood with him listening to the other people in the group regale us with stories, laughing at the appropriate moments, interjecting when I felt I could add something to the story being told, but mostly, I was aware of his arm around me. He felt like a cocoon and I the butterfly. I saw Rachel approach and I smiled at her as she looked wide-eyed first at me, then at Tom, then at Tom's arm around me. She raised her eyebrows and mouthed, "Wow." I don't think Tom noticed. All I could do was shrug. He seemed to take that as an invitation to pull me closer, perhaps feeling that if I moved this time I would bring the two of us to the floor.

As the conversation came to a lull, he asked me, "Would you like to go outside for a breath of fresh air." I hadn't realized how closed-in it was beginning to feel and, frankly, I was still quite lightheaded, so I nodded. "Excuse us," he smiled at our acquaintances, nodding his head. I could only smile. He led me through the crowd and out a set of french doors to a terrace that was decorated with stone urns, benches, foliage. I expected we would sit on the bench, but he had found a path through the foliage and he guided me to it, bidding me to follow it until we emerged at a patch of grass with a gazebo in the center. It was to the gazebo we went. "It's beautiful here," he mused as he glanced up at the sky showing through the open roof of the gazebo. 

I followed his gaze and found a million stars in the velvet night. "Breathtaking," I sighed. "I don't think I've ever seen so many stars." I felt his arm creep around me again and I leaned my head against his shoulder.

"Would you recite some of your poetry to me?" he asked, his eyes still turned upwards.

With a giggle, I replied, "I don't have any of it memorized, but I could write a new one, here, now." 

I saw him smile. "I've never had anyone write a poem for me on the spot before." 

"I find that hard to believe," I retorted. Clearing my throat, I continued. "So deep is the night, so bright are the stars, so warm am I, in my lover's arms. Care I where, we seem to be, as long as it's only, my love and me." 

"That's really good," he said, his eyes drawing down from the sky to my upturned gaze. "How do you come up with most of your poetry?" 

There it was, the question I was dreading, but, as I looked in his eyes, I couldn't help but tell him the truth. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, hoping for the best. "Honestly, you are my muse."

When I opened my eyes cautiously, I saw that he was grinning. "Your muse?"

I chuckled. It was going to be alright. "I know exactly who you are, Mr. Tom Hiddleston, and ever since I heard your voice reciting poetry, I hear it in my head, composing my own. I have hundreds that have been written that way. All love poetry." I lifted my hand and pointed my finger at him, poking him in the chest. "You are my damn muse."

Somehow, I expected him to laugh at my explanation, but he didn't. His eyes softened along with his smile, fading into a look that said he was entertaining something. "Cecelia?"

"Yes, Tom?" My breath was fading fast. He said my name and it came out like a song.

"Can I kiss you?" His hand had come up to caress my cheek gently and I hadn't even noticed until that moment and then I felt only the soft motion of his fingertips.

I nodded, unable to speak, my voice entirely muted. He leaned closer and closed his eyes, brushing his lips softly against mine. "I dreamed about you," he whispered. "I was reciting poetry to you. Now I know it was true."


End file.
